Mistletoe Encounter
by smallsteps32
Summary: Fem!Douglas: Deborah and Martin stayed late to finsh up their paperwork (well, Martin did). They're friends, their relationship is progressing just fine without a little push from Arthur's horrendous decorating skill (Nice Christmassy fic)
1. Chapter 1

**I don't own Cabin Pressure- If I did, Douglas and Martin would be married**

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Ten more minutes and they could leave. Not that Deborah had been counting; no, that was the occupation of lesser mortals. Martin had been less subtle, glancing up at the crooked clock whenever he placed a full-stop on his flight plan for tomorrow.

Carolyn and Arthur had disappeared home hours ago in the hope that they'd miss the late night December traffic. By all rights, Deborah should have been home hours ago, but for some reason, a reason that she still failed to come up with even after the fortieth or so time, she had decided to stay in the portacabin and keep Martin company while he studiously completed every piece of paperwork ready for the next day.

She supposed she had grown fond of him over the years (she ignored the voice that hissed in the back of her head that _of course_ she was fond of him, he was her _best _friend); a far cry from their rocky first few months, it seemed almost cruel to leave him there alone when the windows only revealed pitch coloured sky, and the late night chill was only held back by the portable heater in the corner by the sofa. It was definitely guilt, _not_ just a pang that yanked at her chest and made her want to take advantage of the few extra hours together.

To his credit, after hours Martin did loosen up into an enjoyable companion; the sarcastic, playful atmosphere that had only truly settled for the first time on that _disastrous _trip to Devon would return tenfold once the hat came off and the tie hang looser around his neck. She was certain that he had hated her to begin with; no, Martin had _despised_ her, but over time, the hostility and defensiveness in his eyes had been replaced by something that she hoped, meant he was glad to see her. '_Deborah!'_ (what the Hell are you doing?!) had slowly morphed into _'Oh, Deborah…'_ (Of course you're doing that)

True, at first a lot of talk was about planes (Deborah could deal with that, she wouldn't be a pilot if she wasn't a little interested), but recently they'd begun sharing on a wider range of topics. And if nothing came to mind, well…Deborah would find herself shaking her head back into alertness the second that she realised that she had been watching Martin in silence.

It was strange, she thought as her co-pilot shook his hand to get the blood going, but the more she'd grown to like him as a person, the more she's come to appreciate the fact that once you understood the stuttering and shuffling, he was actually quite handsome. It was definitely okay to think that about your friend; observation was far different than admiration. Deborah hadn't looked much at him to begin with (the pernicious brat he was, it was stare at the sky or give in to the temptation to make faces at him), but now that she did, he really was…his ginger hair complemented his cheekbones, his smile was gorgeous when it had any feeling behind it…

"You alright Deborah?" Martin's voice, not quite concerned, but fond and long-suffering, broke her from her train of thought, which she didn't remember boarding. He was leaning back in his chair, one leg folded over the other, his pen resting against his bottom lip. His expression was relaxed and inquisitive; as familiar as he was with her quirks, he couldn't read her mind.

Deborah nodded resolutely, her posture straightening as she gave a mock salute and span her wheelie chair dramatically.

"Yes _Captain!_" she replied warmly, "Just contemplating what horrors I'm going to unleash on you tomorrow."

"Mmm…" Martin returned to slouching over his desk, "I'd be more worried about what horrors Arthur's going to unleash."

"I don't know what you mean Martin; not so much a _horror, _as a _plethora of joy_." Deborah drawled under her breath, just loud enough to prompt a low chuckle from her Captain. Her eyes traced said 'horrors'; that was all they could really be called. In recognition of December 1st, Arthut had burst into the portacabin in a flurry of tinsel that morning, and proceeded to cover every flat surface, including those more vertically challenging, such as the ceiling and sunroof, with what appeared to be every Christmas decoration from Fitton to Canterbury.

The sound of papers scraping across the ancient desk, and a pen plinking sharply as it joined its mates in their designated cup drew Deborah's attention back towards Martin, who was stretching his arms over his head, making the buttons on his already too small shirt wince under the pressure. She had seen him soaking wet on numerous occasions, and it was safe to say that lifting heavy boxes on his days off did wonders for his physique.

"That's it, I'm not doing any more tonight," Martin said decisively, turning to look around for his coat, "I'm not losing an extra hour's sleep for the sake of next week's forms."

"Next weeks?" Deborah echoed, raising an eyebrow when she was sure Martin was looking over his shoulder; she slipped her own jacket on from where it hung over the back of her seat and rose swiftly to her feet, "Dear lord Martin, you put me to shame. I barely remember to cross _today _from the calendar…next week's a different world."

Martin sidled up to her as she moved toward the door, dropping her a sideway smile that curled up one side of his lips.

"I _had _noticed; you're never where you're supposed to be at the time that you're supposed to be there." He prodded, and actually went so far as to nudge her in the ribs with his elbow as he did up the rusting zip on his bulky coat.

Deborah returned his smile with a wide one of her own, ignoring the warmth that settled in her chest. This was the reason they were friends after all; they had _fun_.

"You've riddled me out Captain." She smirked, leaning back against the door, her arms folding loosely across her chest, "For example, I should be in my cosy bed, but in fact I am here with you."

At this Martin smiled happily, and then glanced downwards as guilt flittered across his features. Deborah noticed how his hands came together and his fingers battled for dominance over each other; a nervous habit that he had picked up when he wasn't really sorry, but actually kind of was.

"You..er…you don't have to stay with me if you don't want to." he assured her, not even shifting backwards when her hand batted dismissively through the air; Deborah hadn't quite realised how close they were together until the tips of her fingers brushed his collar. That had been happening a lot lately now that she thought about it; the day before she had nearly slapped him backhanded in the face as she gesticulated furiously to Arthur that those _were not the lyrics to that song!_

"And miss the party atmosphere as you live the high life here on your own?" She drawled, the warm smile resurfacing as Martin rolled his eyes and dug his hands into his pockets, leaning over to rest against the opposite side of the door. Deborah turned to the side so that they were facing each other.

"Oh…had you been at home I might have cracked out the champagne." Martin stumbled over his own joke, but Deborah couldn't help the small giggle, _no chuckle,_ that escaped her lips. Her eyes traced the lines of Martin's coat, eventually landing on the floor. She assumed that he too had drifted off in thought, but as she glanced back up she was surprised to see that his pale blue eyes were softly trailing her face. The moment that she looked up his eyes met hers and they both looked away, smiling again.

It didn't mean anything; he always looked at her like that nowadays.

As always it was Martin that broke the silence.

"I don't want to open the door." He mused, gazing wistfully at the wood, "It'll be cold once I do."

"I know…" Deborah commiserated. She dropped her head back against the door with a sigh, and it was only as she looked up that she noticed what was hanging above her head.

"Did you see him put that up?" she asked, pointing at the top of the doorframe. Martin's gaze followed the path of her finger, and his face scrunched adorably as he tried to remember.

"I think I'd have said something if I'd seen him pinning up mistletoe." He answered eventually, "You definitely would have."

"I'd have told him to take the bloody thing down before I choked him with it." Deborah agreed, meeting Martin's eyes again before he looked away quickly, with, for some reason, slightly flushed cheeks.  
Deborah suddenly found herself at a bit of a loss; there was a strange feeling in her chest, similar to the one that had appeared when she realised that she had in fact, lost the van keys, or when that she couldn't quite figure out how to get around that last airfield manager. Like she'd lost her footing; she inwardly cursed the fact that for once in her life her brain had decided to sweep away whatever it was that was bothering her.

Martin meanwhile had been fidgeting with his sleeve, watching the door as if still contemplating opening it and letting in the night air. He met Deborah's eyes again; there was uncertainty in them, the same kind that he'd get when navigating a tricky runway.

"Isn't there some sort of…thing…you're meant to do with it?" he asked nonchalantly; _he's hinting,_ Deborah thought confusedly, _what is he hinting? What…COME ON BRAIN!_

"You're supposed to kiss?" She offered; it was time to stop fooling herself. He was asking if he had to kiss her. _Was she really that repugnant?_ (Well…three husbands in a very short time…)

Martin nodded slowly, playing it cool, but he had never been a good actor. He gestured between the two of them, the distance between them even more obvious now.

"So…are we…do we have to…" he started, and then with a cut of laugh, "We don't have to do we?"

_Well that was just charming._

"Why?" Deborah drawled, smirking; this was far more familiar territory than her Captain trying to awkwardly reject her, even though she hadn't actually propositioned him, "Are you _afraid_ of me?"

Martin's expression froze and his eyes took on that steely determination that they always did when he thought he was going to win an argument.

"No."

"_Really…_"

Deborah didn't get to say what she wanted to after that, as in the space of a few seconds a pair of strong hands made gentle contact with her cheeks, and she found herself pressed between the door and another body as Martin's lips connected carefully, but determinedly with hers.

It only lasted a fraction of a second before his face retreated a few inches, but the rest of him stayed put, his hands dropping to rest on her shoulders. Deborah's mind had shut down the moment that Martin had surged forward, and she regained awareness just fast enough to see the infuriating 'I told you so' expression flit across his face, joined by the typical proud pout.

She huffed out a breath, but neither of them made any attempt to move from the tight spot. To be honest, Deborah was far too indignant, and Martin obviously far too proud of himself, for either of them to notice that they were still inches apart.

"That wasn't a proper mistletoe kiss!" Deborah retorted, pretending that she couldn't hear the lack of drawl in her own voice, "It's five seconds or you forfeit."

Martin rolled his eyes and scoffed. Deborah most definitely did not react to his breath across her cheek.

"If _course _it is!" he replied exasperatedly, "Just like I lose our word games if the book I've chosen was televised?"

"Exactly!" Deborah muttered, dragging her eyes away from Martin's lips, "You _cheated_."

Martin didn't reply. Instead, one hand tightened around Deborah's shoulder, and the only warning that she got was the other hand moving up to the back of her neck before he was kissing her again. It was a hard kiss, with no movement; the man was actually counting seconds on his hands, the fingers tapping gently on the skin of her neck, absolutely not making her shiver.

Just as the fourth finger tapped below her hairline, Deborah moved her lips against Martin's, and she felt him inhale in surprise, but her hands drifted towards the collar of his coat and pulled him closer, releasing him a second later. His lips left hers, but again, he didn't move away. She became very aware of the door pressed against her back.

Martin's eyes stared into her, darting back and forth searchingly. Deborah couldn't bring herself to look away, and when he moved in again, she actively leaned into his touch, pushing their lips together. Her arms slid around his neck, pulling him slowly in as their bodies pressed together; Martin sighed into her mouth as he pressed her further into the door, tilting his head and moving his mouth confidently, wantingly against hers.

Deborah wasn't entirely sure when this had happened, and when she had decided that she was okay with it, but the feeling was terrifyingly similar to the feelings that she had been having more and more frequently whist on the job. _How long had she been lusting after Martin?_

Martin deepened the kiss, his hands stroking up her torso, narrowly avoiding anything important. Deborah fought off the moans that were trying to escape, settling instead for the embarrassing sighs that would surely come back to bite her later. Deciding that this was actually rather nice…and _Martin…_she let her tongue dart out and caress his bottom lip.

Suddenly Martin leapt back, this time putting about two feet between them. His eyes were wide and he was biting his lip. Truth be told, he looked torn between continuing, and storming out through the rather obstructed door.

"This is so unprofessional!" he seethed, actually waving a finger at Deborah, who felt a small pang of misery. No…that was not good.

"Martin…" she said quietly, tracing his movements with her eyes; he sagged, meeting her gaze and looking so _unsure_, "Martin…is that really where you're going now?"

Deborah had actually really liked kissing him; the not so awkward realisation that she _really_ liked _him_…wasn't so new when she thought about it. She wasn't sure what she would do if he ignored her now.

Martin watched her thoughtfully, still biting his lips. His eyes were hard again, but there was still that infernal professionalism playing across his mind; it was written all over his face. To be fair though, Deborah wasn't sure she'd be nearly as fond of him if that weren't a problem.

Finally Martin shook his head decisively. Deborah's stomach lurched; she had no idea what that meant. He strode towards her, his head held stiffly. When they were only an inch apart, he looked into her eyes curiously; as the one usually running the show, Deborah wasn't sure how to cope with that, but it had always been the better option to allow Martin to come to his own conclusions. He only shouted when she did it for him.

Martin pressed forward before Deborah was aware that he was doing so, and he kissed her again, properly, his tongue pushing between her lips in moments. She let him, wrapping her arms around his shoulders, attempting to maintain some modicum of control. Even if this went well (she had no idea where it was going), it was going to be humiliating if she swooned like a soppy Cinderella.

Martin continued to kiss her deeply, his hands caressing her properly this time, smoothing over the creases in her uniform. Despite this, the embrace was careful, slow…sickeningly romantic. Deborah was forced to break for air, opening the eyes she hadn't realised that she had closed and resting her head on the door to watch Martin watching her.

"Well alright then." She finally sighed, allowing Martin to step back and away. He smiled warmly and nodded in her direction.

"Yeah."

Deborah nodded in return and pushed the door open, flinching away from the cold gust of wind that buffeted her legs.

"I'll see you tomorrow then."

"Goodbye." Martin called as he followed her from the portacabin and towards the carpark. Deborah peered over the top of her Lexus once she had reached it.

"Goodbye!"


	2. Chapter 2

God she was bored!

Deborah flumped over the edge of her sofa, allowing herself to fall back and lay her head on the furthest pile of cushions. She noticed half-heartedly that her frustrated groan echoed ever so slightly off of the walls of the living room. She could just hear it over the imperceptible murmur of the radio that she'd put on to drive away the silence.

It hadn't always been that empty; before Henry left she hadn't even been able to see the pale purple walls. The ornaments and modern art had covered them all up. And it hadn't been nearly so dull.

Honestly! What had happened to her, what had actually happened to her in the last few months, that had her physically dreading the grinding dullness of Days Off?

Normally she'd just read a book, or do something out of the house (she wasn't any kind of hermit, of course; no, Deborah Richardson was a hardened social creature). But all the books that she hadn't read had been taken from the house (it was always hilarious to see what kind of thing her husbands had been reading; all three of them), and the Christmas season had brought with it torrential rain and unfriendly weather overall.

Deborah slung an arm over her face and closed her eyes against the warm darkness. If she imagined hard enough, she might even be sprawled just like this over the sofa in the Portakabin.

No. That was just sad.

With another groan (why not? no one would hear it.) Deborah hoisted herself upright and headed through to the conjoined kitchen to search through the fridge. Surely there'd be some icecream or something in there to keep her entertained for a little while. She'd need to ask Arthur to bring her some more sugary things next time he spontaneously dropped by.

Maybe she could call Martin and see what he was up to.

No, she thought quickly, better not.

Normally she'd have jumped on the chance; it had become apparent very quickly that nothing was funnier than to turn up at his attic and bother him for a while on a boring and empty day. He'd actually started just shrugging and nodding along after a while.

Martin...Ugh! The lack of things to do might have been less frustrating (because, she had to face it, life as one of two pilots at a poxy airline that kept awkward times did not lend itself to a flourishing social life), if every moment that wasn't employed in a task hadn't been hijacked by thoughts of Martin Crieff.

It was horrible. Deborah had seriously considered trying to drown herself in the sink after the second night that he'd been on (or all over) her mind.

The first night she could accept; one did not undertake an impromptu (and surprisingly satisfying) kissing (make-out) session under the mistletoe without some repurcussions. And they'd...she wouldn't say flirted, Deborah thought as she dropped back onto the sofa and watched meaningless pictures flit over the television screen, but there had been something. Sickening (lovely) fluttery goodbyes, and then they'd gone home as usual.

And that was fine; Martin wasn't the first colleague that she'd fooled around with over the years. However, he was the first that she'd felt and lingering fondness for (the little voice in the back of her head that usually did a bad job of censoring her verbal jabs kept muttering petulantly that it wasn't 'lingering', it was damn well an overall, all-encompassing fondness for his entire person).

Martin was her friend (and even havign to clarify this was so not right it was boggling). She supposed that was what made it so strange.

Because the next day they'd gone to work and flown out as if nothing had happened. Which was the exact thing Deborah relied upon after such encounters...except...she had spen the entire day getting more and more agitated that Martin wasn't mentioning their kiss the previous night. Not even an acknowledgement. She'd even caught herself thinking traitorously that 'maybe he'd been looking at me just then' and 'he's definitely thinking about me now, I can see him looking'; furious with herself, she'd made up for it by viciously slamming her Captain in their word-game.

It's not that she wanted to kiss him again, or for anything to happen, she told herself resolutely; it was that she wanted HIM to want something to happen. Which was ridiculous.

Deborah was fully aware that he had hated her when they first met, and for a year or so after. But recently he seemed so fond of her (there it was again, FOND), and she really did want him to like her. She really, really wanted him to like her; wanted him to like her a lot.

She huffed petulantly and snatched up the remote, taking her misery out on the buttons as she turned the television off and relished the silence.

She was SO BORED!

Suddenly she was knocked ungracefully from her agitated musings by five loud, uneven thuds, which could only have come from the front door.

Deborah didn't need to check the clock to know that it was too late for random guests, but too early for the more drink inclined of her neighbours to be calling at the wrong door.

Wincing at the stiffness in her legs, Deborah wondered on her way to the door whether she was going to be deliberatley smarmy and have some fun with whoever was there, or if she would act like a normal person and make them go away quickly.

Instead of either of these, she had to school her expression swiftly to cover up the mild surprise at seeing her co-pilot leaning tensely against the side of her doorframe.

"Hello Martin," she said slowly, taking in his jeans and thin jacket (he'd been on a van job then), and the peculiar object that was being partially mangled between his hands, "You appear to be fondling a plant."

Martin took a deep breath and his eyes widened, his expression hardening in the same way that it always did when he was about to try and overrule her decisions (and the same way it had the other night, her mind provided). He rubbed absentmindedly at his forehead, and Deborah's eyes followed the hand's path, curious as to what it actually held.

"Hello Deborah, yes, yes I am, a client just handed it to me and it got me thinking, so I came here because-" the words fell quickly, jumbled from his mouth and deborah couldn't stop herself, even though the comment wasn't her best, even in her head.

"You thought you'd come and see your plant-like friend Debbie?"

Martin shook his head and bit the side of his lip exasperatedly. He was clearly on a mission, and Deborah decided that, given the hour, and her thoughts only moments ago (and the last few days), it would be nice to let him continue; folding her arms loosely across her chest, she mirrored his position against the doorframe.

"It-it's just that it got me thinking-" Martin spluttered, and Deborah nodded along quietly, biting back a smirk as he actually paused for a sarcastic comment, and then carried on when one wasn't provided, "and I've been thinking about-well thinking a lot the past few, I mean...you've been looking at me that weird way you have been for a while now, and I thought- well I've been thinking...and this" he waved the still unidentifyable plant before her momentarily, "it got me thinking about- things I've been thinking for a while, and was the other day, but I wasn't sure you were thinking...but I just thought-"

"That sounds like an awful lot of thinking for one aeronautically filled brain." Deborah but him off; cute or not, it would only have been cruel to let Martin keep going.

He exhaled iritably, rubbing his hand over his red face.

"It's just...it's just this-" Martin blurted, and to Deborah's further confusion, he raised the plant over his head, his arm stiff but shaking with exertion (he'd probably tired himself with all that thinking).

Deborah wasn't sure what how to respond, so stuck with the default answer to anything Martin and insanity related.

"Would you like to phone a friend?" she offered guardedly, trying not to smile lest he take it the wrong way and storm off (again), "Ask the-"

For the second time in the space of a week Deborah found herself unable to finish her sentence, or for the matter, the train of thought that had carried it.

She didn't even see him move, but before she was fully aware of what was happening, Martin's arms were wrapped around her torso, one hand pressed firmly at her back, while the other drifted up to hold rest at the base of her neck, and Martin's lips were pressing determinedly at hers as the rest of his body pressed them together.

This was nothing like the cautious approach of the other night; this was Captain Crieff demanding that he took the landing off her and then slamming it into the ground because, damn it, he had control.

Deborah brought her arms around his neck and pulled him in closer, pushing her lips back into his and enjoying the warmth of his flushed cheeks against hers.

She really should have protested this just a little bit, the voice in the back of her head muttered, the contrary bastard.

Martin pulled away, and Deborah might have complained at the loss of his arms around her is she hadn't been breathing to fast for words to form, or her mind had been racing a little slower. Martin, she observed, was looking very pleased with himself. And he still had that plant in his hand.

"Look, see...it's mistletoe." he panted as he extended the object.

A closer look told Deborah that it may once have been mistletoe. Something about the dumb simplicity of the gesture made the warmth in her chest flare, and (to her dismay), she felt her cheeks heat up.

"That Captain is a pile of crushed leaves." she finally answered carefully, the corners of her lips rising as she watched Martin's sheepish expression as he dropped the leaves on her porch.

"Well, it wasn't," he started, and then took a deep breath, centred himself, let his hands hang by his sides, and looked her straight in the eye, "But you see what I mean?"

Deborah nodded slowly, without even thinking about it. This was really, really bad; life could become so much more difficult if she sent him away AND if she invited him in. (She really wanted to invite him in- that was bad too. Deborah Richardson of two and a half years ago would be ashamed.)

Martin was still waiting for an answer, his face drooping just a fraction as the moment dragged on.

Gently, cautiously, Deborah reached forward and, swinging her arm just a tad, brushed the back of his hand with his knuckles. It seemed like the right thing to do given the moment; it was eerily similar to the way the back of their hands would brush every now and again in the flight-deck as they nudged past each other to get to the controls.

Martin's face lit up, and his eyes dropped to track the floor; the blood rushed to his cheeks and Deborah couldn't quite help the small laugh as he chuckled lowly, as if he couldn't quite believe his luck.

After another few seconds, Deborah realised that she wasn't entirely sure what to do. She decided to settle for getting them out of the doorway, as the breeze (which she had barely felt until then), buffeted her bare ankles.

"Was that all, or did you want to come in?" she asked, eyeing Martin carefully. He smiled briefly, but his face returned to its excited wariness.

"Yeah..yeah, only if that's alright..." he said quietly.

"I wouldn't offer if it wasn't." Deborah remarked, stepping aside to let him pass.

Martin started forward and then stopped, looking nervously into the hall, and then tracign his eyes down her body (which made her weirdly self-conscious - she'd explore that later).

"Do you think..." he asked suddenly, and then reasserted himself, his hands dropping away from his sleeves and back to his pockets "Are we going to mess this up?"

Deborah paused in trying to sweep Martin through the door and watched him for any sign of wanting to leave; he really was quite handsome, and he was looking at her so seriously.

"Probably." she replied confidently.

Martin nodded resolutely and bit at his bottom lip. After a moments thought, he nodded again, and, stepping into the hall, allowed Deborah to close the door with an inward surge of victory, although she hadn't been aware that she was trying to achieve anything.

* * *

**I realise that this is far shoddier than the other chapter, but hopefully the message has been put across.**

**Just me, fulfilling my need to write**


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